Perhaps it's a coda of sort
and not a quota
on a 'list to do'
or in any way quotidian.

Let's revisit words
like old friends,
with faces now wrinkled
almost forgotten,
vaguely remembered,
loosely associated
with a mood,
maybe a tone,
or was it subject matter,
form and content?

Playing with a Tempest
teetering silently
on a quiet Sunday
afternoon.

BUT it's only Wednesday!

George.Carlin.stuff
window.shopping.green
jacket.turquoise.dress
­my.our.stuff
close.2.kiss
brief.closeted.mix
somewhere.sapphire.s­hift
somehow.cerulean.drift
wish.holding.past
we.stuff.me
faded.l­eave.memory.

Text me
Test me
Trust me
Tempt me
Tell me
Take me

We say with Glee to each other
"you're gonna miss me when I'm
gone", tap, tapping a hollow,
rhythmic heart beat tune we all
can dance 2.

Blue songs -- heart break, and heart
make -- comforting white
noise from a TV left
on because we need company
while shuffling about our
widowed empty nest.

Is the truth always sad or
does it make us angry?

The clinical diagnosis is no one
will remember when I'm gone.

There'll be no shrine in a living
room reminding us
of Vietnamese grave sites
where my father's, his
father's, my uncle's, and my cousin's
names are written.

All the boy's names are forgotten.

Modern girls need closure, shutting
the door to past boys
because it hurts too much
when the shoe is on the wrong
foot.

We wonder which gender
neutral Gloria will survive,
and which stupid
lock should have been changed,
and which door must close
forever, forgotten.

Maybe the truth does set
us free, but we don't realize
it yet and still comes back to
haunted houses,
spending ghost money from
a displaced parent's love wallet.

Crickets rub their legs together
at night, chirping. To past
time, we two stridulate.

It's just a myth, but we sing
anyways, every night.

A calling song, loud ***
appealing, before a quiet
chirp ends the courting.

Chirp, chirp, chirp,
who the **** is he?
Chirp, chirp, chirp,
make up, or make it up,
let's ****.

A large vein runs down
the wing, serrate teeth
smiling, gnashing out
dry chirps.

Night songs of entangled legs,
or crossed wings? It doesn't
matter, and we hardly notice
the passing night.

The tumultuous song
of a billion chirps doesn't keep
us up alone in bed at nights
anymore.

In greying room sits my idle stare
glassy I outside see Baltie air
foggy white whiskers, a comely face
Smiling mouth vacant. A circle lace,
Within contact eyes sparkling fair
Uneasy on moving teeth despair.

Zoom, zooming a Prius black streaking there
in between Baltimore, heaven's stair
up collective vibe, woodie brown palace trace
knowledge bit worker, foe uncommon hairy race
Discovering an escaped boar upon hidden lair
Greasy lit padding with dollars flare.

Are there strategies to displace binge eating
with binge doing?
Wouldn't it be swell to get $ for binge coding?
something like:

poem.each do |word|
money = word.compose(your.wordstream)
end

More efficient monetizing of your thoughts.
More efficient cars and buses.
Correlarry: more paved roads, driveways and concrete surfaces,
therefore, more runoff pollution.

It's not the end game
yet, but a vast,
complicated middle game
with closed centers
and deep positional
Play.

Will our grandmasters make
a mistake real-time playing?